


Taken

by missbeizy



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: F/M, Incest, RPF, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 09:40:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2768420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's best when it happens in anger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taken

It's best when it happens in anger. And it's not like they plan that. But it's like that quite clearly at the last second, when the anger finally runs itself into the ground. 

There have been some epic battles, especially since Hannah's turned fifteen; her life really began to run contrary to Elijah's then, despite the divorce bringing them both down to the same depreciated state of mind. Being forced to accommodate her life to Elijah's jobs and also deal with the move and Dad being gone all at once has brought them to blows more often than either would like to admit. In addition they've lost the easy comfort that their physical encounters had when they were younger, and this makes them both brittle and unsure around one another. There's annoying shit now--pubic hair and periods and boyfriends and self-consciousness and crying. 

So it's better to let it happen fast, out of nowhere; outside the realm of decision. Why can't it be comforting the way it used to be? Neither of them will talk about it.

"Stop it!" he yells, catching her flying fists, pushing her away. He doesn't want to fight. He doesn't remember what set them off. "Fucking stop."

"Asshole," she sneers, twisting her arms to get away, which only brings her closer. She hates him. Hates him so fucking much with his fucking stylist and his fucking scripts and his fucking intelligence that lately has made her feel like half a person around him. She wants him small and insecure the way he used to be. She wants him to beg at her thigh the way he used to beg.

"What's WRONG with you?" he growls, face flushed red, as he works her arms and finally pins them, forcing her to go still. "I'll drive you, okay?" he tacks on, remembering. "I was just fucking kidding when I said no."

Her eyes glaze with tears and she jerks backward, freeing herself. "I'll walk." There's a split second; she doesn't know whether to grab him or punch him. So she strides out of the room, ponytail bobbing behind her. "Don't need your fucking car."

He follows her down the hall, calling her name, but she charges into her room, door slamming predictably behind her. Flushed with a second wave of anger at this, he grabs the door knob and twists, surprised when it gives easily, but still so prepared to bust the lock open that he shoves preemptively at the same time, sending it clattering open. Rising from the chair in front of her dresser, she closes the distance between them with three steps, arm reaching for the door. She'll push him out and lock it this time. 

He grabs her wrist before she can make contact with the door and shoves her back. "Are you PMSing or something?" He has her in his hands again, and she's twisting to put space between them. "We can still go. Get dressed."

"Fuck you," she spits, spinning on her heel.

He reins her back in, pinning her sharply against his chest. "Yeah?" He finds himself bruising her upper arms, shaking her. "Huh?" He says it so loud and so close to her face that she flinches. "Is that it?" He allows one hand to free itself and travel her robe, groping along the flap. It finds the fold and pushes inside, squeezing the small globe of her breast, finding the nipple already rock hard. The discovery goes right to his cock. "Yeah, that's it..."

"Stop," she whimpers, arousal and pride clashing somewhere below the sash of her robe. She'll never admit it.

His kisses her sloppily and suddenly, her lips doing their best to botch the attempt, because giving in is not a simple thing. "Been a while," he breathes into her mouth as she slowly melts, "been a long fucking while." His fingers wrestle the robe's sash open and parts the folds to reveal her quivering, pink front. He lets go of her limp arms, cupping each breast in his hands, pressing the pebbled crests. 

She gives one last weak attempt to unwind their tangle, and he grabs her firmly around the waist again, pushing their bodies together. "You want me to make you?" he growls, teeth on her throat, her chin tipped back. "We can pretend, like old times. Remember? 'Fight me, Eli, pretend I don't want to,' and you moaning. Remember the way you moved? You wanted it so bad... Fuck."

"I don't," she says, miserably. He sweeps his elbows down and around, hooking her knees, and lifts her. She grips his neck, so hot and tight that she can feel the ache in her muscles, so thoroughly besotted with embarrassment over wanting it that it's gone beyond arousal to a place where there is no choice involved. He tips her onto her back against the floor and sprawls out on top of her, kissing her again, requesting her tongue and then curling his own in circles around it. Her fingers finally close on his back.

"Hannah," he sighs as he grinds fitfully against her inner thigh, blood tattooed seemingly permanently over his cheeks. He snags one of her hands and fixes it palm-up, sliding it against the bulge at the front of his sweatpants. "Please."

Fighting off the thrill, she bites her lip and takes him in hand. "I'm sorry," she says, though she doesn't know exactly why, and encourages his erection. "Oh, god, I..." He kisses her again, cutting her off. When he stops, she's pushing the material off his hips with the heels of her palms, brow knitted in concentration. She rubs the hot tip of his cock into the small furrow of her palm, loving the way it feels. It never feels exactly this way with anyone else.

"It's okay," he pants, his hips rocking softly into the strokes, knees pushing against the floor, his arms bunched with young muscle as he hovers over her. "Stop, stop, I..."

His fingers bump her knee, glance off her thigh, searching higher and eventually finding the right angle. He cups her hot sex in his hand, squeezing and manipulating in that circular fashion she seems to respond to. Her small breasts shake and flush when he curls his middle finger, arched, into her, and grinds his palm against the fold over her clitoris.

The backs of her heels dig into his calves, searching, hips trying to get somewhere, and he stops and slides his slick finger from her body, watching it smear accidentally along her inner thigh. She utters a soft squeaking whimper; a fluttery thing that goes down his body like velvet rubbed the wrong way. "Eli," she whimpers, rubbing her fingers down along herself and then forward to clasp the shaft of his cock, guiding it. 

"Put it," he groans, lifting himself. "Push it."

They rise at the same time and come together; a faint wince and then pleasure across her face mirrored almost exactly in his, with the robe flopping around her arms and his pants clinging to his knees, bare bodies in full view of the open door. She wraps her legs high around his waist. The give of her muscles is slight--milking him and pushing at him instead of taking him--and he relishes the tightness and watches her do the same, her face turning an impossible scarlet, all her features scrunched and intent on taking every bit of him. Their style is untutored and smacks of youth; no smooth rhythm, no promise of longevity. They bump and grind in a frantic rhythm and she cups them together desperately, pushing her own flesh, memorizing the feel of his girth stretching her. It almost burns.

She pants against his shoulder and claws at his arms when she comes, shuddery and unplanned. He'd hit something accidentally; some spot bumped for long enough and that combined with the quick press of her fingers had been enough. She wants to get it over with. The pleasure sops her muscles but she'd much rather witness his. She stares up at his damp face, takes it between her small hands, hands with fingernails smeared with dark pink paint, and forces his eyes open. 

He stares down at her, shaking and already coming apart, with nothing more than the sound of his thighs smacking into hers and the gentle rise of a staggered whimper from his throat. She crosses her ankles over the middle of his back and rises up hard, offering more resistance. He trembles and stops and she pushes with her feet. "No, don't, just come..."

He falls on top of her, going ridged and sobbing into her hair as he lets it happen. He's still; gives another hard rock; and then still; and then slams forward again. Her body takes it; owns it. When he finally stops, she peels her hot fingers from his damp back, and lies limp on the floor. He whimpers and snuffles his nose clear and shifts his face to her throat. He begins to cry softly, nothing more than silent tears, and she tangles a hand in his sweaty hair, her face a smooth mask of compassion. And when he tells her he loves her, she believes it.


End file.
